CHURL SULLIVAN is a writer from St. Louis, Missouri, who conspires with his feline familiar, Purrmes Trismegistus, to pen poems in the lean-light hours. His work has previously appeared in Sparks of Calliope, and he can be found @Churl_Sullivan or napping in his pithos.
The Lay of Mélusine
At ease upon a summer’s eve I went
Into the woods to stalk the stag and boar,
Wherein I nocked a dart, and careless sent
Not game, but kindred to that other shore—
My uncle rapping on the devil’s door!
Ashamed I fled into the blotting night,
When Mélusine I saw in silver light.
A crown of wormwood on her raven hair,
A cloak of moonlight and a downy dress:
Would God conceive a creature half as fair,
His whole dominion should be doubly blest,
And war and peace be made but for her tress.
She smiling came up from the river bank,
And in my breast my courage broke its rank.
Said she, “What puts you, Raymondin, to flight?
What brings you breathless to my crystal font?”
And I, “In shame I fled into the night;
My every step a guilty conscience haunts!”
Then merciful she smiled as confidant.
“There is no malice in your heart,” said she,
“A purity of soul in you I see.”
There succored in the softly morningtide,
Upon a bed of leaves wherefore to rest,
She took me in her arms as though my bride,
And woebeset I wept into her breast
Until the tawny sun was in the west.
“Come, Raymondin, and rise,” she whispered low,
“We find our future in that western glow.”
With Mélusine I went into the march,
Atop a tor between two valleys wide,
And there before a ruined Roman arch,
I swore a vow and took her for my bride
At height of noon upon the summer Ides.
Said Mélusine, “This vow the more I pray:
You will not seek me on the Sabbath day.”
Of gratitude and love I promised thus,
Then Mélusine with faerie spell anon
Of sound and stone a castle for us trussed—
And this we called Château de Lusignan,
Our little kingdom on the River Vonne.
Nor did I seek her on the Sabbath day,
Though much I wondered why she hid away.
My darling Mélusine our children bore,
And though the half were sick and palate cleft,
These tender ten were each himself adored:
Not one was of his father’s love bereft,
Nor from his mother’s nursing bosom left.
But ever did our eldest, comely Guy,
Geoffroi the second stoke to jealousy.
Oh, how our little kingdom quickly bloomed!
For every son a castle in his name!
And daily in our towered chamber room
My Mélusine would wait until I came
From back the woods I hunted plenty game.
Geoffroi and Guy with me the verdure roamed,
Returning not until the creep of gloam.
My heart was full and e’er my hearth was filled
With kin and friends and guests from far and wide.
One final jewel my richly halls to gild:
My parents come to join me there inside—
I summoned them from Poitiers countryside.
On Sabbath they arrived into my hall,
And Mother asked when Mélusine would call.
Said I, “On Sabbath Mélusine aways
Unto an arbor on the river’s edge.
There cloistered with the forest fae she prays,
Nor do I think to undermine my pledge:
Ne’er I trespass her rose-adornèd hedge.”
And Mother, “What pray tell does rose ensign?
Does not a lover Mélusine enshrine?”
“My Mélusine our love would not betray,
Our children and our kingdom not forswear!
As sure as on our marriage shone its rays,
The ardent sun of romance gleams as ere!
No other heavenly body can compare.”
These things I said convicted of a fire,
But Mélusine I doubted for a liar.
To sleep I took for quiet and repose,
But sneaked a doubting too into my dreams
As when I woke, I asked “But why a rose?
Does Fate against my budding kingdom scheme?
Has Mélusine a lover by the stream?”
So on the Sabbath night I stole away,
And entered in the arbor where she prayed.
But as the welkin of the darkened moon
So was the arbor lorn of silver light:
There in the empty night I heard a tune,
Of which I followed not by dint of sight,
Until I saw—perceived and was affright!
For Mélusine was in the river bare,
Bescaled like a dragon in its lair!
“What are you, wife?” I cried in my despair,
And rushing down onto the riverside,
Took up my sword to fell the hellish mære,
For this was not the Mélusine my bride!
But she did not her serpent lower hide.
Said she, “In light of truth you see me now,
But love was furnished of a secret vow.”
For want of sense I fell upon the strand,
And to the water threw my father’s sword;
There I repented with an open hand,
And weeping pled, “forsake not our accord,
For still I love you as I do the Lord!”
Then merciful she smiled and said, “My dear,
This which is worth delight is worth a tear.”
To secrecy and faithfulness I swore,
That I would not her serpent half reveal;
And though that night her scales yet she wore,
With congress still our loving pact we sealed—
And God may find me doubting his ideal.
Wherein the morning light she was anew:
Fair Mélusine, my only love and true.
The Lord above forgives us of our sins,
Yet we beneath do not enjoy relief;
My Christian soul be damned for slaying kin,
In Fate and fae I put my firm belief—
‘Twas Mélusine, not Christ, who took my grief!
Of wormwood and of briar is her grace,
And on my night of peril shone her face.
Into my twilight days I sooner scried,
For every father must his line ensure:
With Guy into the woods I went astride,
And on the hunt I made him heir de jure,
His heritance and lordship to assure.
Returning to the hall we made a feast,
And every goblet rang without surcease.
Geoffroi across the banquet table kept,
Nor would he for his brother raise a toast;
Afar I watched as Mother on him crept
As would a Norman on the northern coast:
“The spoils unto victors daring most.”
Then from Geoffroi there came a roaring sound—
He leaping threw his gauntlet to the ground!
“Your favor is no more deserved than mine!
But you are fair and pleasing to the eye.
Let Fate our family heritance assign:
Not beauty but a battle-wit apply—
To duel then, Guy, that one of us should die!”
With arms Geoffroi departed from the hall,
And followed Guy, a rider for the fall.
Before the hall, atop the rocky tor,
Geoffroi and Guy with swords resolved to duel.
My Mélusine a-weeping cried, “O War!
Wreak not on them your venging wreckage cruel!
Must every man with you rejoin to rule?”
But neither son with crying could be swayed,
And next they came to blows and bloody blades.
Of palate cleft and fangèd upper tooth,
Geoffroi was visaged by the gods of war:
He struck with neither pity nor with ruth,
And through his brother’s hauberk eager tore,
Exulting in the clangor and the gore.
When Guy disabled fell before the maw,
I intervened to spare him coup de grâce.
“By rite of battle you secure your claim,
But tarnish not your soul with fratricide!”
Geoffroi replied, “But he is hardly maimed!
He will recover and his time will bide,
Until he bring a challenge for his pride.”
I stepped between the wounded and the willed:
He struck me, then Geoffroi his brother killed.
I held my eldest murdered in my arms,
And woebeset I wept for both my sons.
“What deviled him to cause his brother harm?
What cursèd ichor in our bloodline runs?
That I should wed the fae: what have I done?”
In view of all who stood before the hall,
I cried, “It is the Drake who God appals!”
How Mélusine upon me looked with grief:
She saw that I was senseless in distress—
That I was in the tempest as a leaf!
But I, before our kindred and our guests,
Had broken that which we had once redressed.
Said she, “I leave you with this parting word:
May love as we were bound your spirit gird.”
My Mélusine bestowed me future love:
She gave to me a pair of magic rings;
Then she with tearful eyes looked thereabove,
And to the heavens flew on scaled wings!
Nor did I know the meaning of these things.
All there before the hall in terror fled,
As on the wind a dragon westward sped.
Alone I clung to Guy and wept me dry,
When Mother from the banquet hall emerged.
Said she, “It serves me well to hear you cry:
I for my brother only heard a dirge—
Now you upon your family too are scourge.”
Upon the rocky tor I bursted, “Fate!
From you there is no hiding or escape!”
CHURL SULLIVAN is a writer from St. Louis, Missouri, who conspires with his feline familiar, Purrmes Trismegistus, to pen poems in the lean-light hours. His work has previously appeared in Sparks of Calliope, and he can be found @Churl_Sullivan or napping in his pithos.